Page 23 of Mean Moms
“I don’t really understand what the big deal is,” said Frost, masking her panic. She’d had a few similar moments during her time in the spotlight, when negative items were written about her. She’d found then that the best way to move forward was to own it. But that was before she had a family. Before she had anyone other than herself to worry about.
“Sofia and I went out and had some fun, so sue us,” said Frost.
“Yeah, it seems like you two have becometotalbest friends,” said Belle. “I was at Miles’s hockey practice when I got your text, but if you’d told me beforehand, I could have arranged childcare. Everyone was gossiping this morning about you partying with young guys.” Frost could hear Belle’s hurt over the phone. On top of everything else, she had to deal with Belle’s insecurity? Please.
“Aren’t women allowed to let loose? Or does our ability to interact with the rest of the world disappear when we give birth?” said Frost, feeding Belle the lines she knew she’d parrot to the other moms.
“Well, you make good points,” said Belle. “And who cares about those judgmental bitches,” she said, now fully on Frost’s side. “They all hate me already anyway. Next time I’m definitely coming!” Belle giggled, and Frost lay back down on the bed, exhausted.
I can’t do this. Something has changed. I’ll explain later. But it’s over between us. I’m so sorry.
Ok, fine by me.
Art Chary was sipping a dry martini, sitting at a high top at the back of Le French Diner, a tiny restaurant on Orchard Street on the Lower East Side. He felt safe, with no fear that anyone from his Atherton life might somehow walk into this place at 5:00 p.m. on a weekday. He generally preferred going to hotels with his paramours, or, in the case of Frost, her apartment, but Tilly had insisted on meeting “out.” He’d said fine, wanting to keep this new thing going, both to fight boredom and the melancholia that was lately cloaking him like one of his cashmere hoodies.
I can’t do this. Something has changed.He reread Frost’s message from the previous week, feeling the gin burn his throat as he finished his drink. He wondered what had changed. He’d never ask.Okay, fine by me, he’d replied. He’d known it was a bit of a heartless response, but what was he going to say? “No, please”? “I love you”? Impossible. A slightly sour feeling came over Art, and he tried to shake it off, knowing Tilly’s arrival would help.
Did he love Frost? Yes. Did she love him? He didn’t think so, though they’d never discussed such things. For her, it had been a great adventure, a way to regain the excitement of her fizzy youth, a distraction from her failing marriage. For Art, well, it had been more than that.
He thought back to the first time he’d met Frost, at an Atherton pre-K curriculum night. They were in the cozy classroom, with its little helper wheel and ABCs everywhere. Frost had been standing alone, inspecting a picture drawn by one of her boys, just a scribble, really, but admiring it in awe, as you would a painting at the Met. He’d noticed her expression first, the adoration for her child visible in the crinkle of her eye, and then he’d seen that hair, those wild auburn waves he’d wanted to bury his face in.
He’d introduced himself and she’d been polite, explaining that she and her husband, Tim, who’d been off that day at a film shoot, had twins, King and Alfred. He’d reciprocated with info about Gertrude. They’d chatted briefly about how they’d come to find Atherton, and how happy they all were to have landed at the best school in New York. A completely standard parental interaction, though the whole time he’d been thinking, Who is this gorgeous, charming person? Why aren’t I married toher? Morgan had soon spotted them, striding over to interrupt, to befriend Frost by force, as Art had known she would.
“Hi there.” It was Tilly, sitting down at the table, her face tilted toward him expectantly. Tilly was sweet, she was gorgeous, and she was amazing in bed, as Art had recently discovered, doing all the things women now seemed to think were standard but, in the old days, would have blown Art’s mind.
“How are you?” he asked, thinking only of how much he’d rather be sitting across from Frost. As soon as Frost had brokenthings off, Art had reached out to Tilly—he’d known she’d be interested. Tilly was lovely but she was a child.
“I’m good, I’m good,” she said. “But I want to see you more.”
“I know, but it’s only been a week,” said Art. “And as you know, this is just… fun.” He smiled at her with what he considered to be his most persuasive, sexy smile.
Tilly frowned. Art was semi-worried she wasn’t hearing what he was saying. He’d had affairs before, many, but was always careful to choose women who had their own stuff going on: divorces, bad marriages, no one looking to leave a life. That wouldn’t have worked for Art. He was tethered to Morgan forever, in health and in sickness, since their first bloodstained meeting.
“I just don’t want to feel used, Art,” said Tilly, squeezing his hand uncomfortably. He slipped his fingers out of hers.
“We’re using each other!” he said lightly, trying to laugh it off. What would Morgan do to Tilly if she ever found out? he wondered uneasily. Perhaps that was the one upside to breaking things off with Frost. He’d known he shouldn’t have started anything with her in the first place—taking advantage of her high at that party, the exhilaration he’d felt touching her as he’d always fantasized of doing. But the temptation had been too much. Art was ashamed of his own weakness. He wasn’t a bad man. Just a man who was stuck.
“Would you like a martini?” he asked Tilly kindly. She shook her head. “You know I don’t drink, silly,” she said. Art had forgotten; these young people nowadays, sober, depressed, wanting to live forever but hating their lives. Poor Tilly. “But I’ll have a mocktail if they have one!”
Art went up to the bar, glancing out the large front windowas he did. He saw the flash of a woman in a hooded jacket as she spun around, hurrying to the other side of the street. Had she been looking inside the restaurant? Art knew he was probably just being paranoid. Being in public like this made him jumpy. Next time, he’d ask Tilly to come to the hotel room straightaway.
Chapter 7A PA Meeting!
Morgan Chary was winning. Everything was working out just as she’d hoped it would. The bookings for Thyme & Time were through the roof, and she’d been going in nearly every day, making sure the staff was happy, engaged with customers, and dressed to perfection. She felt great about the direction they were heading, though opening a spa had never been something she’d wanted to do. Her plan had been to launch Thyme & Time and then pass off the management to a partner, but now that it was humming along, Morgan thought she’d like to stay involved.
Physically, Morgan was also feeling good. She’d allowed Dr. Bossidy to tweak her Wegovy dose, pulling back so that Morgan didn’t entirely forget to eat. Instead of nonexistent, her appetite was now a gentle tug, reminding her she needed fuel to keep going. She kept mini protein bars in her bags for such occasions, nibbling on them throughout the day. She loved how empty her body now felt, nothing to muddle her thoughts and desires and urges.
Morgan was on her way to meet Belle at the little Tribeca storefront Belle had rented for a Pippins Cottage Home pop-up, nestled between Thom Brown and Bubby’s diner. Belle was hosting a press preview on Friday, and she’d asked Morgan for help setting up the event. The sky had opened into puffy white flurries as Morgan walked up to the entrance, the windows still covered in brown paper.
Morgan knocked on the door, the soft leather of her Hermès gloves making a muted rap. No one answered. She pulled her phone out and checked the time—11:30 a.m., right on time. Where was Belle? She knocked again, louder. Nothing. Then the door cracked open and she saw Belle’s hand stick out, beckoning her to come in.
Morgan slipped inside, stepping over open cardboard boxes filled with The Dresses. She turned back to Belle and was surprised to see she looked like an absolute mess. Her eyes were red and swollen, her face stained with tears. Her hair, normally so perfect, was like a rat’s nest, coiled and bunched up. Belle sat down in the middle of the floor, amid the boxes, leaving Morgan standing there awkwardly, still in her coat. Belle put her head in her hands. She didn’t say anything for a few seconds.
“I don’t think it’s going to work,” said Belle finally. “I think I’m going to fail.” Her eyes filled with moisture, and Morgan could tell she was about to start crying. Morgan swayed, feeling unsteady on her feet, trying with all her might not to pass out.
“Don’t be negative,” said Morgan, holding on to the wall for support. “Pippins Cottage Home will be huge. You’re the next Gwyneth Paltrow! You’ve been working toward this forever. Everything is perfect.”
Belle scoffed. “I think I’m cursed,” she said with a frown. Morgan, starting to sweat in the dry heat, took off her jacket and gently placed it on a nearby table. She sat down next to Belle, crossing her legs, her back Pilates-class straight, assuming her usual role.
